


my heart keeps beating on

by coffeeandchemicals



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Pining, Post-Season/Series 03, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26236825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandchemicals/pseuds/coffeeandchemicals
Summary: Steve didn’t know how he’d ended up there.It was like his feet were under someone else’s control.(And why not? Steve’s brain was no longer under his control. Why should he expect something as insignificant as his feet to listen to his conscious mind?)His feet walked him places he did not want to go. But it was his eyes that betrayed him. His eyes made him see things he did not want to see. His eyes made him want to rip out his own heart just so he could stop feeling things he did not want to feel.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35





	my heart keeps beating on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thursdayknight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thursdayknight/gifts).



> Written for the fantastic [thursdayknight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thursdayknight)! He asked for a story that had: “It hurts so much” and “Please, just breathe”.
> 
> Please mind the tags! If I’ve missed something, please let me know.
> 
> This is totally unbeta’d – all mistakes are my own.

Steve didn’t know how he’d ended up there. 

It was like his feet were under someone else’s control. 

(And why not? Steve’s brain was no longer under his control. Why should he expect something as insignificant as his feet to listen to his conscious mind?) 

His feet walked him places he did not want to go. But it was his eyes that betrayed him. His eyes made him see things he did not want to see. His eyes made him want to rip out his own heart just so he could stop feeling things he did not want to feel. 

But his heart continued beating, his eyes continued seeing, and his feet still took him to all the places he did not want to go.

The tree at the Byers’ place – he’d blink and see Billy standing in front of him, mouth drawn into snarl, his hands wrapped in Steve’s jacket. Steve had thought that Billy was going to hit him again, just like that night in November. Instead, Billy had shoved him against the tree hard enough to knock the wind out of him and stared at him. Steve had stared right back, confused, as Billy’s eyes had moved from Steve’s eyes to his lips and back again. Billy had muttered, “Fuck it,” under his breath and then had kissed Steve. Hard. Bruising. As if Billy had wanted to hurt Steve. As if Billy had wanted to hurt Steve as much as he was hurting himself. But, when Steve had kissed him back and gently ran his hands up Billy’s arms over his shoulders to caress the sides of Billy’s neck, Billy had sighed. 

No one else would see that tree and hear that sigh and know, just _know_ , how sad and broken Billy had been. To everyone else it was a tree, aged, withered, creaking, a Halloween relic left out too long. To Steve, it was the origin point. It was _his_ origin point. It was when Billy Hargrove had kissed him filled with hate and Steve Harrington had kissed him back filled with love. And every time Steve saw that tree, he was sucker punched, on the ground, agony screaming through his bones, tearing at his skin. 

But his heart continued beating, his eyes continued seeing, and his feet still took him to all the places he did not want to go.

The house on Cherry Lane – he’d blink and see Billy’s room lit up with Billy standing there, fixing his hair so it lay just so. He’d see when Billy would see _him_ – Billy’s eyes would light up and he’d let that patented smirk just spread across his face, his tongue running along his top lip promising Steve all the fun that they were going to have together. But then Steve would blink. He’d blink and the house would be dark, empty, cold, lonely. 

No one else would see that house and know of the boy – almost a man – who’d let Steve take his heart and took Steve’s in return. To everyone else it was _that Hargrove place, and didn’t that boy die? Killed in a car crash? He always drove too fast. Too fast. Too fast. And the family moved away? Back to California?_ To Steve, it was a ghostly reminder of all the things he’d felt, all the things he’d let himself feel, all the things he’d lost, all the things he would never find again. 

But his heart continued beating, his eyes continued seeing, and his feet still took him to all the places he did not want to go.

Billy’s Camaro – he’d blink and see Billy’s car everywhere. It was always just out of the corner of his eye. And Steve would look. He’d look and the car would be gone, just some other blue muscle car that couldn’t contain Billy’s essence. And Steve would have to force down a sob because for a tiny instant, a fleeting moment, Steve’s brain would let him believe that Billy was here. That Billy was whole. That Billy was alive.

But Billy was none of those things. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t whole. He wasn’t alive. And Steve didn’t know if he could bear it. 

But his heart continued beating, his eyes continued seeing, and his feet still took him to all the places he did not want to go.

Steve’s feet walked him to the graveyard and stopped him in front of Billy’s headstone. His eyes made him look at it. And he fought them, but his eyes won, and Steve couldn’t look away. He could not unsee the marker – even though he had it memorized. It was a simple design, just name and dates. Nothing about how Billy had died saving anyone. Nothing about how Billy had died alone and afraid. (Because Steve hadn’t been around to recognize that something had been wrong with him. No, Steve had been slinging ice cream, cracking codes abysmally, and getting tortured by Russian soldiers.) Nothing about how Billy’s body had been crushed, destroyed, in the mall collapse. Nothing about Billy’s sacrifice. 

Steve traced the letters and numbers with his index finger as his heart beat a tattoo in his chest. Billy had been dead for six months and Steve ended up here almost daily, lump in his throat, stomach roiling with guilt and sadness and despair. But nothing came out. No words. No sounds. No tears. It was like he was wrapped in gauze and nothing could touch him. Nothing was getting through the layers of protection he put up. Nothing was getting out either. Steve knew once he started picking at the edge, once he let it fray a bit, nothing would stop the deluge of emotion that would come flooding out. And Steve would finally have to accept that Billy was dead and he’d taken Steve’s heart with him. 

His finger caught on a rough edge and Steve jerked it back. Red blood bubbled up, a harsh contrast to the grey surroundings of the cemetery. Steve watched the blood, saw its brightness, and he felt the levy break. He coiled in on himself, wrapped his arms around his stomach as if he were trying to hold himself together, and finally let that sob out – the one that had been pressing against the back of his teeth since he’d seen Billy being held in the air by a monstrosity, since he’d seen Billy fall into the pool of his own blood – red against the grey surroundings of the mall. 

“It hurts so much,” Steve sobbed, as he curled up into a ball on his side. “Billy, I shoulda been there. I should have been there. And then you’d be here.” Steve let the tears stream down his face as he made himself smaller, as if he were trying to disappear. 

He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him. He didn’t hear the creak of a leather jacket as someone crouched down behind him. Steve didn’t hear anything over his own sobs, the pounding of his heart in his chest, and his own mumbled apologies. 

A hand, broad and warm, was on his back and Steve jerked up, ready to fight whoever had seen him this _vulnerable_. It took a minute for his brain to catch up. His eyes saw the blond curls. His eyes saw the solid shoulders and muscled thighs. His eyes saw the familiar blue eyes that he knew so well looking back at him filled with concern, fear, joy. His eyes saw Billy.

Steve blinked, expecting this Billy to disappear like all the others. But he didn’t. Instead, this Billy let a small smile touch the edge of his lips. This Billy reached out a hand to grasp Steve’s upper arm. This Billy said, “Hi, pretty boy.” 

And Steve’s lungs stopped listening to him. They inhaled air in a series of short gasps. Steve felt his world shrink as his body fought the shock of seeing Billy. Billy who’d been dead for six months. Billy, the beautiful broken boy who’d given Steve his heart and taken Steve’s in return. Billy who’d died alone and afraid–

“Please, just breathe,” Billy whispered, as he stroked his thumb up and down Steve’s arm. 

Steve’s heart started beating, his eyes started seeing, and his feet finally stopped him in front of Billy.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from [The Real of It](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8968s9tF-XE) by Said the Whale.
> 
> Any comments or kudos are greatly appreciated. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr (clearly, given that this story was a tumblr prompt)! You can find me @ [coffeeandchemicals](https://coffeeandchemicals.tumblr.com/). (Spoiler alert - I am learning how to tumblr, but it’s a slow slow process.)


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